


Pacific North Mercenary Company

by iniquiticity



Category: Hockey RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Navy, Alternate Universe - Pirate, Ensemble Cast, Gen, M/M, San Jose Sharks, abandoned work, teamfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-23
Updated: 2013-04-20
Packaged: 2017-12-06 06:04:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/732271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iniquiticity/pseuds/iniquiticity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In this summary, the narrator will explain that there was a ship that they informally called the tank. The tank carried a crew they informally called the sharks. And while they were not usually ultra-adventurous, their captain had acquired a treasure map. </p><p>The narrator could tell you about the treasure this map lead to, and the adventures the sharks would go on uncovering it, only he is well aware that would not be conducive to you reading the rest of the tale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which A Battle Commences

**Author's Note:**

> Go on cruise ship for ten days. Write ship AU. Somehow this doesn't shock me. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't know anything about boats or sailing.  
> Disclaimer 2: Don't own the players, this is not representative of their actions, etc. If you found this by googling, read at your own risk. Strongly suggest you hit the back button in your browser.

The man was awoken by the sound of the emergency bells. There was a bell in every cabin, hooked up in an elaborate system to several main pulls scattered around the ship. The penalty for a false emergency call was 40 lashes and a severe loss of friends. If you survived the lashes, your back was patched only grudgingly and no on was bringing you ale (or food) while you healed. 

He wasn’t dressed, but that didn’t matter. All he needed was his overjacket, teal with black, orange and white, and some pants. the rest of the uniform was insignificant in the face of the crisis. 

They had two emergency signals. A long time between the clanging of the bells was a navigational emergency - usually a storm and the associated havoc. A short time between bells was what they mockingly called a ‘confrontational emergency’ - they were being attacked. 

He threw on his short, informal boots because they required much less lacing. He grabbed his pistol and gunpowder, than strapped that to his waist along with his sabre. 

He headed for the deck. 

Usually on nights like this the whole ship was illuminated in the dull white-grey of the moon and stars and nothing else. The dark hide them, and they saw no reason to stand out. But if you were looking you could find them, and if you wanted to start trouble only to learn that you were ineffectual and they were cruelly efficient, you could. 

Like this. 

The other ship had more or less snuck up on them, the darkness friend to the enemy as much as it was to them. That their colors were black and silver helped, the flag like a strip of silver stars surrounding a black box that hid in the sky. No cannonballs had been fired to break the silence. Instead their crew had orchestrated a near-perfect boarding, disturbed only by the opening crack of lightening that heralded the beginning of the thunderstorm and exposed them to the lookout, who sounded the emergency bells. 

Usually it was calm, quiet and dark. 

Not tonight. 

On the deck they fought viciously with pistol and sabre, splashing red on their uniforms and on the deck, both also being soaked with rainwater. They roared and cursed each other in the rain, the lightening illuminating their ferocious battle and the thunder hiding their shouts of victory and pain. 

The attack was repelled with effort. They held back their opponent and slashed at the ropes holding the two ships together. They ran their enemies through and shot them and threw them over the low railings of their ship’s deck. They yanked their boat away and sailed off, letting the storm take them in whatever direction it wished. 

And therein lay a second battle which they were forced to fight, already exhausted and wounded, loving and hating the harsh winds with equal measure. The storm fought the shouts of navigational directions with fierce thunder and howling wind, slammed agains the boat’s solid wood with crashing waves. But like their first enemy, they persevered, conquering the weather and navigating into calm waters. 

Suddenly, they were quiet and alone in the darkness. The moon was silent and thoughtful, and a friendly wind blew. The gore from from the battle had been washed away, but was still evident in the smashed railings and damaged sails and broken steps - as well as bloodstained uniforms and broken bones and the low moans of pains from the injured, both human and ship alike. 

* 

The narrator will abstain from poetic descriptions of violence and apologizes for the previous section. We will now continue.

The captain was sitting at the wheel. He was a giant of a man, all broad shoulders and musculature, complete with an unkempt and runaway red-blonde beard and a head of unmanageable curls that needed cutting. He looked exhausted, half-flopped over in his seat, staring at the lower half of the wheel, which at the moment was lashed into place. Red streaked his teal uniform in splatters, although he did not appear to be favoring any particular limb. 

He leaned over to the man next to him - same splattered uniform, although he smelt significantly more of gunpowder than blood - and muttered something to him. This man, whom the narrator had previously become impressed with his ability to wake up and become a powerful defender of his crew in no time at all, was smaller, with a shaved head and face, and he listened obediently, then nodded.  
 The captain stood and, with only a slight stagger, took the steps from the front of the ship to the main deck and opened the door to the cabins belowdeck. 

Along the way he stopped to lean on a man - slightly shorter, dark hair and two days dark growth on his jawline, with a blocky face and a small smile. The man held him without being asked, and made no comment about the light extinguished in the captain’s eyes. The captain said something and left, closing the door behind him.


	2. In Which Things Go Unsaid

Along the deck repairs begin immediately, spare wood and materials being brought up from belowdecks and mend stairs and railings, to replace torn lines and patch ripped sails. The crew move with a sharp, effective efficiency, suggesting they had spent some significant amount of time together, following and giving orders, assigning tasks as they need be assigned, and performing all duties that generally needed to be performed on a ship. They hammer new pieces into place and fit in new ropes, taking advantage of the cool, calm dark. There was no use trying to get back to sleep now, all still pumping with the adrenaline caused by the arrival of both their invaders and the storm. 

The man at the wheel has little to do with the night winds being so agreeable and the wheel lashed where it is. Instead he watches the deck come back together and stares up at their weather vane and the lookout high above in the crow’s nest. The nest is damaged, but the man quietly thinks to himself that repair will have to happen during the day, to which the narrator heartily agrees.   
 When repairs are thoroughly underway and orders have been given out and the beginnings of the repairs are forming - wooden tumors hanging off broken railings and a lump of a step growing where it should, not quite nailed in - the man is joined by another. 

The intruder is obviously a brawler - his face is blackened and bruised, one eye puffy and a wound crusting shut on his cheek. There are old scars there, too, and a much-broken nose. His teal uniform is torn and stained as well, though it gives the appearances of being fixed and patched many times, slightly different teal squares locked together. The newest tears are in his right bicep, and through them bloodied flesh is visible. But the man makes no indication of pain or injury, blue eyes in a sharp face clear. Despite the ragtag look to him, there is something undeniably skilled in him - a quickness to his movements, the ease of his steps. He looks tired but smiles, and his smile is met by the navigator. 

“You got the fucking easiest job on the ship,” says the brawler, good-naturedly. “How do I get to sit here and take care of a tied-down wheel?” 

The navigator laughs, looking up at the brawler, who stands next to his seat. “I’ll let you see how easy it is next time it pours,” he retorts. While he doesn’t show it, the man’s arms are screaming from holding the wheel during the storm. 

They both laugh at that. 

“Captain says we’re heading to port,” the navigator says, “Should be there in a day or two if this breeze keeps up. 

The brawler’s eyebrows go up; he knows the captain isn’t all that fond of dry land. For a while he just thinks, running over possible docking locations in his head.  
 When he comes to a conclusion, the look he gives the navigator is even more confused.

The navigator shrugs in response. No words are exchanged.

So instead of asking, the brawler puts his hands in the pockets of his torn pants and looks into the moonlit ship, where repairs are ongoing. He moves to the steps, then looks over his shoulder and back at the navigator. 

“Take it easy, okay, Pavs?” he asks. There are lots of other things he could say, but that covers them well enough. The brawler might be bruised and swollen but he can see the exhaustion written in the man’s face, and knows that it’s in his too. 

“You too, Ryane,” The navigator replies, with a smile. He leans back in his chair and looks at the wheel and then up at the moon. He glances at the weather vane on the ship and gets a sense for the direction of the air. Then he looks out to the ocean, where he knows their next destination is. 

The navigator, the brawler and the narrator all agree that it is a strange choice, especially both knowing very well of the captain’s personality and taste for ports.

* 

If we may return, with the reader’s permission, to the captain at hand. After his exit from the deck (after his orders to his trusted navigator and even more strongly trusted first mate), he managed to stagger to his office, and in a state of sort of exhaustive delirium, write a letter. It was a letter to an old friend, who was now formally his enemy, a man back east. The captain’s past on the Eastern seas and across the ocean was mysterious to his underlings but quite clear to him, and there were connections he had not needed for a long time, not until now. 

He sealed the letter with his signet ring, an eye and chomping teeth. The wax was teal and soft when he pressed the design into it. 

Then he went to his quarters, hit his bed, and slept the sleep of the exhausted. 

It is now the closing hours of the day. The repairs to his ship are are finished, though he does not yet know that. He awakes slowly, unable to drag himself completely from his blackout sleep as quickly as he’d like. He stares at his stained jacket in confusion before shrugging it off. He stares out his porthole and into his mirror, studying his face. He is dirty and rusted with blood from his enemies, and it makes him laugh a little, sheepish. He chews on salt pork he finds on his writing desk. He stares at the sealed letter and a hundred other papers and scribbles, furious notes and calculations, circled destinations on maps and a lists of things to do. 

He squares his shoulders and decides he is more or less intact. 

There is one knock on his door before it opens. His first mate is waiting, with ale and more salt pork. 

“Evening, Patty,” the captain says, nodding. The grogginess of waking up from his deadsleep has faded away, and the captain is awake now, ready for the night. 

“You slept the whole day,” the first mate replies. The captain drinks the ale in three gulps and leaves a little extra, then stuffs the salt pork in his mouth all in one hand. He suddenly realizes he’s ravenous and hopes he can find some non-mealy bread. They’ve been out to sea a long time. The captain wishes it could be longer, but he has things to do.

“Made up for last night.” 

“Quite a night.” Patty sits down at the writing desk, carefully unseeing the spread papers. Secrets are easy to keep when everyone agrees not to look for them, and it’s more than fair to ignore the secrets of everyone else when you want to keep your own. 

“Can you believe them?” The captain says, slowly stripping down out of his remaining uniform. His sudden nakedness doesn’t seem to bother either of them, simply a fact of living in close quarters. There isn’t enough time to request privacy, then talk. He has the scars of a long history, though to him they’re all old news - and almost all to the first mate, as well. He opens his armoire and begins to redress in less bloody and salt-stiff clothes. 

“Totally snuck up on us last night,” the first mate says. “If that storm hadn’t come, we could have been in trouble. Not that the storm wasn’t a mess on it’s own, but...” 

“I know. And what were they doing up here anyway? They know good and well this is our territory.” Something like anger gleams in the captain’s eye, sharp and hard. “They have other battles to fight.”

Patty grins. Despite the ferocity he felt last night, there’s something gentle in the first mate’s smile. The man has a history which the narrator is not privileged to share at this time. 

“The Ducks have to have moved in,” The captain continues as he laces his boots. “Perry’s smart enough for that. Kings should be busy with them for a while.” 

He lapses into silence, looking out his porthole, now fully dressed. The weather is temperate enough, making the uniform hardly hot or uncomfortable at all. He knows he doesn’t have to wear it but he feels obliged to anyway. He slides epaulets that mean nothing onto his shoulder straps and uses the last of his ale to wipe the crusted blood from his beard. There is something unabashedly proud and regal about him, despite the wild hair and scars. There is something morose and distant in his eyes. 

“The crew’s worried about you,” his first mate says, finally. 

The captain hears what his officer is actually saying, which is _you should come above decks_. His officer won’t order him, won’t even request something of him, right now. There’s no reason for such an obvious breach of etiquette at this point in time. 

“Thanks. I’ll be up in a bit.” 

Patty puts a hand on his shoulder and gives him a look. There’s history here, a lot of it. A lot of things are being said - can be said - without words. The narrator is only at liberty to explain that the captain and his man have a long and tangled history together, and that they oftentimes do not need words to express things.

“Take it easy, Jumbo,” Patty says, as a friend. He squeezes his captain’s shoulder and smiles at him. 

“Thanks, Patty. I promise.” 

Patty thumps him on the chest with his hand and heads out. 

The captain doesn’t break promises when he can avoid it, of course. But he does not specify a time, and for a while he stares out his porthole, and at his documents, thinking thoughts that would likely make this story more interesting, only the narrator is not licensed to share them, at least at this time.


	3. A Brief Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The narrator explains some myths and legends in a brief interlude. We revisit the brawler (& his companion).

Instead, a brief interlude, in which the narrator will explain the habits of the crew, if he may. 

LIke most ships, the Sharks (as they were informally called) had ports they preferred to dock in and ones that they did not agree with. They made their living along the western coastline, “protecting” the smaller merchant ships for a small fee that they requested upon seeing the ship. Occasionally there was the rattling of swords or the readying of pistols, but it was all done quite idly, side-habits. It was their territory, after all, and they saw no reason to disturb any of the good traders that passed through. 

There were a number of ports on the west coast, all the way up into the Frozen Reaches (Caucks territory - the Sharks rarely went. They were not friends) and down to Olyzuk’s Finger, far more south than their boat went. The Sharks held the Pacific North. They butted heads with the Caucks to the north of them (Pacific Frozen Reaches) and to the south the Kings (their attackers of the night previous) and the Ducks. Having two opposing forces in the Pacific South to get to the Sub Lands (the ships that ruled there were mostly submarines, and they followed alien rules) was tough - you could pay no bounties, one, or two. A number of the Sharks had been to the Sub Lands and explained they were alien but beautiful. 

Though the Sharks mostly stayed in the Pacific North. They occasionally sailed farther west, but their captain preferred to play it safe. The crew made no complaint. Generally, they were not interested in conquest, but preferred to drink and be merry, and occasionally threaten large quantities of money out of fat merchants. 

They were on the southern edge of their territory now, and the port in which the cpatain was taking the ship was usually thought of as Ducks territory. Even moreso, being that it was more or less on a boundary line between two ship territories (and that did not factor in any Kings presence), it was filled with roudy, nationalistic Ducks, Sharks and Kings folk who looked for a reason to fight. The presence of the Sharks crew was a nice, easy reason to stab your neighboring Ducks fan. 

The narrator will explain that it was not in the captain’s nature to catalyze a fight in such a manner, or be in one when he was not forced to do so. The narrator must even confess that he had heard rumors of merchant ships even being caught by the Sharks captain and not being forced to pay protection fees. 

The captain was a smart man and knew the presence of his crew and himself would lead to violence. People would hear they were in town and start fights with them. People would explain to their neighbors that they could defeat them. People would construct elaborate tales that they had already been defeated in combat. It was uncharacteristic of him to set that chain of cause and effect in motion. 

But he did so, and his men obeyed, even if they looked at each other strangely. Their captain had lead them for some time without fail. He was loyal them and merciful when necessary, but as frightening as a mythical serpent when enraged. He was a legend in battle. 

So they went with him. 

Some of them, the narrator must share, think he is on a Cup hunt. And this possibility - to touch and drink from the magical, mythical Cup that gives you what you want - excites them and makes it difficult to sleep. They lie in bed and wonder the best way to phrase their wishes. 

The narrator is fairly sure the captain believes in the cup, though he has never made any indications either way to his crew. The Sharks have plenty of believers among them, and even the hint of a CUp run gets them talking at mess to each other, whispering the endless possibilities. Usually one team, them or the Eastern Sea occupants, goes once or year, because that’s the way things seem to go. There are usually rumors first, though, born on the wind and whispers. The narrator has heard no such rumors of a Sharks Cup run and suspects no one else has. 

It was the Cup that had strengthened the empire of the Red Wings until the mere whisper of their arrival caused tremors. Repeated finds by the Oilers and the Habitantes, in the Frozen Reaches, had made both crews dynasties of legends. It had made Martin Brodeur immortal (so they said). It had whisked Wayne Gretzky, the mythical pirate king, into a kingdom of legend, grander and more magnificent than their territorial seas.   
 So they said. 

If this unusual port stop was the beginning of a Cup run - if the captain had a bead on or a hint or a map indicating the location of the mystical moving island of Lord Stanley - if this meant the start of an adventure that would take them all through the world’s oceans and seas - than the narrator could not fault a man for losing sleep to delusions of grandeur. 

Though at this moment, the reason for this uncharacteristic stop must remain hidden. With the reader’s permission, the narrator will graciously end his somewhat overblown explanation of tall tales and history and return to the reality at hand. 

* 

We return to the brawler, Ryane. The swelling has gone down, and he is now only sporting a fabulous black eye and cut cheek, as well as his torn and ragged overjacket. He is in his cabin of not-unimpressive size. On his walls are swords of various make and models, hung and mountaed. Some are chipped and ragged,, others flawless andbeautiful. Ryane was a hunter as much of a seaman, and a furious collector of trophies - swords and shrunken heads, medals and gold pieces, animal teeth and hooves and bones. His conquests were only seemingly limited by the space his cabin afforded him.

There are a few books, but they are all about legendary animals he hopes to sometime tame, or treasures he’d like to find. There are all kinds of weapons of his own, normal and exotic. 

He is not alone. He is joined by a man younger and smaller than him, with short hair and buck teeth. The man has a teal overjacket like his, yes, but there is something inherently different about him. A sense - a feeling of offness, an aura of ozone static. He does not quite make the hair stand up in the back of your neck, but he frequently gets double-takes, like the watcher is expecting to see a second head or third eye. 

Thise sense does not seem to bother the brawler. In fact, perhaps given the ferocity of affection Ryane is laying on the man’s mouth and neck, he may even be attracted to it. The man seems to be made boneless by these attentions, whimpering and arching softly. 

He threw the man down onto his bed and begin to undress himself. He was well-practiced in this matter, and quick at it, and when he was done he began to undress his visitor, as to be afforded the oppertunity to attend to more bare skin. 

“So we’re going to a strange port?” The visitor says, as he is more or less assaulted. It must be difficult to talk, but there’s rarely time to speak between the brawler’s various battles and hunts. He even managed to concentrate through one of his nipples being dutifully bitten. 

“Weird for Jumbo, at least,” Ryane replied, hands working at the man’s clothing - bootlaces first. “Not one of his normal ports. I’ve been kicked out of the same bars a hundred times. Can’t say I’m that let down about finding some new places to get booted from.” 

“Say why?”

“Pavs said he didn’t.” Overjacket next, then overshirt, then undershirt. “That’s who I heard it from.” 

“Patty know?” The man shifted under the attack, moaning low as the brawler got him down to the leather britches, then palmed the growing bulge in than roughly. “I mean, he can read the captain like a book.” He might have had more to say, but was cut off by skilled hands massaging him. 

“That who you think about when we fuck?” Ryane squeezed the bulge a little harder, and the man arched off the bed with a quiet wail. Despite the force, there was no anger in those sharp eyes. 

When he did let go, it took the man a few seconds to gather his thoughts again. 

“Don’t be stupid,” he said. 

Then, the man brought his hand to his chest, and rubbed his thumb, index and middle finger together. A tiny lightening bolt, white-hot and sharp, flew from those fingers and struck Ryane’s bare chest. 

The brawler yelped in surprise, holding the bolt where he’d been shocked. 

“Bastard magus,” he said, without anger. 

“Possessive hunter,” the magus replied. “Well, while I suppose I’d rather have Patty naked --” Neither of them could surprise grins at this, because while the first mate was an extraordinary seamen and warrior, he was not particularly attractive -- “I guess you’ll have to do. Maybe you should tell him. I’m sure he’d go for it.” 

This made the brawler actually laugh. “He’s straight as an arrow,” he said. “Though if you don’t mind, you can just pretend I’m him.” 

He bent his head down the bare body in front of him and worked on his favorite activity: conquering. 

When they were exhausted and spent (the narrator will save the sexual and explicit descriptors of their sex acts when the story is boring and needs your attentions), they lay in Ryane’s stained mess of a bed. They curled close, lazily affectionate as the ship moved through the dark night. The calm silence was welcoming, in comparison to last night’s chaos. 

“Do you think Jumbo is getting off the ship?” The magus asked, shifting in the possessive embrace of his lover. “He’s not just going to make a strange port stop and stay in the ship like he usually does, right?” 

His lover considered. “I guess so?” He said, but it was more of a question. “Maybe. I don’t know. I mean, the port is strange so maybe the captain has a new plan that involves getting off the ship. Or maybe someone will just meet him here. Or maybe he just wants to do something new. You or Pavs might know before me, especially because usually the captain prefers not to have me in his docking group.” He gave the magus a knowing squeeze. The man laughed. 

“He probably doesn’t want to get evicted with you from every bar in the Pacific North,” the magus replied gently. 

“If you didn’t become so electric when drunk and make everyone scared, I wouldn’t have to defend you.” 

“If you weren’t feeding me rum when I said I’m done, I wouldn’t get so drunk. And I can take care of myself.” 

“If you had higher tolerance, I wouldn’t have to force rum on you. And I will never let anyone hurt you.” 

The narrator will move away from this bickering, though he assures the audience it continues for some time, as lovers tend to be.


	4. A Mysterious Letter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Handling the letters, the narrator promises, is a menial task with a curious amount of importance.

The morning comes, hot and cloudless, and the wind picks up out of nowhere. It’s hard and sharp on the ship, with Pavs at the wheel. The captain is there too, and the first mate, and a number of other men the narrator has not had the pleasure of introducing the audience to yet. (The narrator insists they are all more or less standard gentleman types, albeit with their unique characteristics.) They shout directions to each other and the men wrapped in sails and rope above them, who adjust accordingly, then shout other directions to the crow’s nest. 

Up there is our magus, hands twisting in unfamiliar motions, a stream of seeming-gibberish leaving his mouth. His eyes are closed. The ozone smell is stronger around him, mixing with seawater and lightening and that strangeness. The wind gusts harder up there as well, blowing his short hair in all directions, and his magic reaches up and funnels it into their sails the best he can. The magus is talented but still young, though the older crew know he’ll be able to push them from one corner of the world to the other without a drop of natural wind when he hits his prime. In the crow’s nest with him is a scout, peering through thick goggles through the tiny whirlwind and waving colored flags indicating what he means, the winds too fierce for him to shout anything back down to deck level. The blue flag (“successful spells being cast, all clear”) is hanging now. 

Off one side of the ship they can see the pacific coast, their coast, almost entirely their territory at this point. It arrives suddenly, all sandy beach interspersed with rocks and cliffs and towns and the tiny marinas and ports that know them. It makes them collectively smile, even those who vastly prefer the rock of the ship to the steadfastness of any particular town. No sailor likes the ground for more than a day of two, of course, but some will never enter a town without entering a bar and/or a brothel just as well. And the narrator confesses there is something to be said for bars and brothels, rowdy storytellers and equally rowdy whores. 

While it’s certainly fantastic that the ship is moving at a not-unimpressive clip, it keeps the crew busy. It distracts them from the oddness of their destination, makes it impossible to have a proper conversation with the captain. Sometimes he’ll entertain questions about his plans and strategies from almost everyone, and sometimes not even his first mate can get a straight answer out of him. But no one has found any harm in trying, no matter the result. 

Knowing they are going to dock soon sets off a flurry of additional actions. Inventories must be categorized and lists must be drawn up of things to buy. Repairs to the ship can be done in a fuller capacity. New items can be purchased for both personal and ship use. The crew that isn’t involved in driving the ship is hurrying along through the storerooms that line the front of the ship, counting furiously. They are low on almost everything - docking soon was fairly inevitable, simply not here. What bread they have remaining is more or less inedible (the captain, lucky man that he is, found the last stores with no mealworms), and even their salted meats are low. They need water, even with the storm’s help last night. And then there’s the cannons, powder and cannonballs, all of which need to be thoroughly stocked. The lightness of the ship helps it fly. 

Letters scrawled on the seas are collected. Not all of them are literate, as sailors tend to be, but almost all the officers are. The captain’s letter is among them, stamped and sealed formally.

The man - boy, more like it - tasked with the letters is a new fellow upon the ship. He begged and prayed and repeated all the different tasks and and vocabulary he’d learned from hanging around the docks and bothering all the sailors. After a sufficient amount of badgering, they’d taken the kid onto the ship in front of the captain. 

The captain asked him a number of quirky questions, such as what was his opinion on ancient creatures like mammoths, and did he believe in sea monsters, and how and why did he want to be a Shark. The kid had always wanted to be a Shark. He had grown up in Sharks territory and wanted nothing more than his own teal jacket. He had a replica, sewn by his mother. 

The captain decided to give him a chance, with strict rules. The first rule being _do what you’re told, no complaints, to the best of your ability_ and the second rule being _you’re a Shark now, and you represent me and our brand, and if you make us look terrible you will never sail in a mercenary company again_. 

The kid is collecting letters because that is what he was told to do, even though he quietly thinks this will not help him be a better Shark. Being in the rigging will help him be a better Shark. But he obeys rule one religiously. 

He sees the letter and thinks it’s a strange thing. He’s unfamiliar with the seal - the captain isn’t one for official business, mostly. He does not usually send out sealed letters. The boy can’t read, but he can still study the letters on the front, ones he’s sure he hasn’t seen before. He uses a secret one of the other younger sailors told him, and then holds it up to nearby porthole and the light shines through it, where he can see that the parchment inside is thick and written in a loopy kind of script. He can’t read it, but it looks important. He stows it carefully with all the other letters and stands a little straighter. He’s carrying the captain’s official mail, after all.

The boy is shrewdly intelligent and thinks about the crew that he knows. Some can’t read and will be no help. Others will rat him out to the captain. He mentally ruffles through the crew. 

He knows just who to ask about it. But first there is more mail to collect, per rule number one. 

In the innards of the ship he passes the powder monkeys. They rib him playfully and toss cannon soot at him, because even if his age is older than some of them, he’s spend less time on the ship. 

“I’m carrying the captain’s official business!” The kid says, sticking his nose up and protecting his cargo of letters. His oversized teal jacket is covered in the stuff, though he uses his forearms to protect his bag. “It has the seal on it and everything! Don’t get it dirty!” 

At this, one of the cannoneers looks up from where he is restacking cannonballs. It’s hard work and he’s sweating, but the words catch his ear. 

“Kid,” he says, sharply, to the stained messenger, pushing himself away from the stack. “Let me see the official letter.” 

The kid looks at him. Despite his earlier plan to share it with someone else, it wasn’t this man - this cannoneer he doesn’t know. The cannoneer is old and worn, with all the scars of a successful career - missing bits of the tips of his fingers, old burns that never quite healed, something tired and wise in his eyes. He has a square face and is, without a doubt, one of the older men belowdecks. While the kid doesn’t know this, the narrator is at length to share this man has a history with the Sharks. 

“Tommy,” the guy says, with an exasperated sigh. He holds out a stained, calloused hand. “I’m not gonna open it, don’t be stupid.” 

“You can read?” The kid - Tommy - asks. He still looks suspicious, though he hands the letter over cautiously. Rule one still applies, sort of. The man is certainly his superior. 

“Enough to get by,” the cannoneer says. He holds the letter with a stained handkerchief, studying the front. He tuts once and hands it back. “You’re a good kid, Tommy. Take these up to the deck with the rest of the junk. Any other orders down here for you?”    
“Yeah,” Tommy answers, feeling safer now that he can stuff the letter back into the lettersack, “I also have to collect all the soiled coats and take them to the washer.” 

“Good luck with that,” one of the younger cannoneers jeers. The older cannoneer looks over and scowls at him. 

“Put your ass to work or you can get the coats,” he growls sharply to the interjecting voice. “Kid’s got a better job than you anyway.” He turns back to Tommy, then - “Keep this safe, kid. Very important business.” 

The old cannoneer watches both kids scramble, then stares at his small cannonball stash thoughtfully. He’s joined by another cannoneer, even more soot-stained than he, though perhaps a few years younger. 

“What’s the letter say, Stuart?” The new arrival asks. 

“Hey, Boyler,” Stuart replies. “Addressed to the Bruins. Have to be related to our stop, doesn’t it? What’s Jumbo up to with all this?” 

Boyler - who looks about as black as one, considering his dark hair, dark eyes and three-days growth without even starting on his prestigious collection of cannon soot all over his everywhere - nods and sighs. He watches the goings-on with something resembling an administrative eye. 

“We should order extra powder and balls,” he says, after a while. “I don’t know what’s going on, but having more firepower can’t be a bad thing if Jumbo’s calling on the Bruins for something.” A pause. “Although we can’t get enough ship power to stop Chara if they board. Jumbo or Cranky, maybe, but....” 

Boyler trails off. Both men look equally grave at this prospect. The narrator thinks they have good reason to do so.


End file.
